Life.

LIFE

By E. B. White

At eight of a hot morning, the cicada speaks his firstpiece. He says of the world: heat. At eleven of the same day,still singing, he has not changed his note but enlarged histheme. He says of the morning: love. In the sultry middle of theafternoon, when the sadness of love and of heat has shaken him,his symphonic soul goes into the great movement and he says:death. But the thing isn't over. After supper he weaves heat,love, death into a final stanza, subtler and less brassy than theOthers. He has one last heroic monosyllable at his command.Life, he says, reminiscing. Life.